


Slur

by herbailiwick



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Boundaries, Episode: s10e03 Soul Survivor, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 13:50:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2510060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 10x03. Sam is drinking when Dean wants to drink. </p><p>Sam has a few concerns and, for once, Dean has the inclination to listen to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slur

The strange thing is, Dean doesn't feel free. He remembers Sam saying he'd felt no guilt when he went soulless, and that he'd liked the freedom. As a demon, Dean had finally understood. Dean had had emotions where Sam hadn't: anger, indignation, pride; that swell of annoyance he got about Sam (only amplified).

Less emotion than usual, though. And he'd had less concern for pretty much everything than usual too. It was all a little too John Winchester for Dean's post-Azazel tastes.

John. Sam had brought up John, and Dean had not felt the usual rush of memory and confusion. John was dead; why should he care? 

All he'd cared about was hurting Sam. All he'd cared about was twisting that knife. Sam did that swallowing thing, made that tears-in-the-eyes pokerface, that shift on his feet, that ode to sass. It had felt amazing to see Sam react, a rush he can still remember flooding him pouring in and making him full, not empty like Famine had declared. It had felt like sheer poetry written in Purgatory, like a burger made with love that he didn't have to make himself.

It had felt truly beautiful, tearing into Sam. Truth was, it usually did, even when he was human.

Dean needs a drink. He needs a drink, and he needs to get out of the room even more than that. He doesn't wanna sing, doesn't wanna play Foosball, or fuck, or walk away, doesn't wanna hurt anyone.

He wants to hurt himself, actually. But that's not really practical. Plus, he does have some residual pain in his veins. He feels sick there, like he's crackling with energy somehow. He remembers that Sam felt hot and crackling inside during the Trials. He'd never really understood how that felt, and hadn't really wanted to. Everything was starting to be a parallel now, though, a new way to relate to Sam, to feel for him.

Which sucked.  _Majorly_ sucked. No one wanted to be like Sam, to feel what he felt, to worry about every move. It wasn't practical. It wasn't pleasant. It wasn't  _pretty_.

There's no sound in "the liquor room" when he rounds the corner, but Dean sees a still figure from the open doorway upon his approach.

It's time to turn around and flee, to shudder into forgetfulness. Sam never has to know. 

Sam looks up. Of course.

Sam looks up, then sets his glass down with a clink, pushing himself up, tipsy and with tired muscles from dealing with a demon who knows him intimately all day.

"Sammy," Dean tries.

Sam pushes the chair back with a scrape, pulls a gun out of the chair where it had been sitting next to him. 

He's freaked. He's standing still and he's shaking, his eyes wide like they were when Dean had cornered him in the hallway and had a standoff he knew he'd be winning, that Sam knew he'd be winning too.

Dean takes a half step into the room. Sam tenses, gets in position to shoot. "Whatever you gotta say," Sam says, his voice a little hoarse, and very soft, "you can say it from there."

He's holding his ground. Dean blinks. He's actually afraid of what Dean might do. He'd just brought Dean food like an hour back. How's he so scared?

"I'm not a demon anymore, you know." It's an attempt anyway. Somewhat light in tone, but he understands that a demon brother would be scary.

Sam doesn't stop shaking. He doesn't stop aiming.

"Come on, Sammy. Before you hurt yourself. One bum arm already."

"You can't do that anymore," Sam murmurs in reply. 

"What?" Dean's thrown for a second, trying to figure out what he's doing because, actually, he kind of wants to stop what it is. He kind of wants to try and make Sam more comfortable. "Do what?"

The gun lowers, but Sam's lip is quivering. "You can't call me that. I said it before, and I'll say it again. You can't call me Sammy. I don't deserve that, after everything I've done."

"What? No. You...you did it, man," Dean says, stepping forward, but he only makes it one step before the gun is up again. "Seriously? What the fuck! I'm just saying...that...you're my brother, okay? So...Sammy is good. You earned it."

Sam clicks the safety on, tosses the gun into the chair. He seems satisfied, somehow, that it's really Dean. He points, indignant. "Dean, that's not even what I mean. I don't deserve the way you say 'Sammy' because you don't say it to support me." His hand's on his hip now, and Dean is terrified now, of Sam's honesty. "You don't say it to congratulate me, not really. I told you when we first started working together that I don't like it, and I never have. I don't like 'Sammy' because 'Sammy' means you're in control of me. It means you don't have to think about what I want cause you're the hotshot, the big hero. I'm not okay with it, and, frankly, you shouldn't be either. I don't deserve your bullshit. I just don't deserve your bullshit at all."

Grabbing the bottle, Sam walks away from the chair, leaves a wide berth between himself and Dean as he heads for the exit. "My name is not Sammy. You don't have the right to use that anymore. You were the only one with the right, and now it's gone."

"Just cause...I was a demon?" Dean asks, turning to watch Sam leave.

Sam pauses, glances at Dean. "No. That was just the final straw. You've been using it that way, in a way that _hurts_ me, ever since the first time, and it's just gotten worse. We're not gonna do that anymore. I'm not gonna answer to that anymore. You're scarier than you think you are. You're meaner than you think you are, as a human. And I'm done with 'Sammy'."

Dean blinks and watches Sam get to moving again, a little unsteady, with the one arm and the tiredness.

" _Sam_ ," Dean emphasizes like he thinks Sam's being a little stupid about it but also like he wants to make sure he's using the right term so Sam'll believe he wants to at least make an effort. "Can I help you back to your room?"

"Do whatever you want, long as you respect my boundaries," Sam says. He doesn't complain when Dean walks alongside him. The trip seems long, kind of awkward. 

"Maybe you should take some time off," Dean suggests, passing on Cas's concern. 

Sam relaxes a little. "Yeah. I think so too," he agrees. 

Dean can't remember the last time Sam admitted he needed to take a break.

They're suddenly at Sam's door. Maybe the trip was too short after all because Sam's gonna go in there, and then the next time Dean comes knocking, there'll be another gun aimed at him. He doesn't want that. Not for safety reasons, but because that lack of trust sucks.

"So...," he tries, wondering if maybe Sam's saying "Sammy" is out because they're not that way anymore. "We're not brothers anymore?"

"Fuck!" Sam says, and he's angry, he's actually indignant, and Dean remembers, once again, that there's a lot Sam doesn't say, a lot Sam doesn't call him on, cause it's never like Sam's overreacting, just like...he's finally reacting.

"What?"

"Dean, I am a  _very_ good brother to you." There are tears in Sam's eyes. He's got that angsty, you-don't-understand-me-Dean sound in his voice, and Dean feels pretty guilty about that for the first time in forever.

Dean thinks for a minute. Sam tried to be nice about the treatment, after all. Even called Cas when he thought Dean was dying. And the junk food Dean hadn't completely eaten cause there'd been so much of it? That was a nice touch.

"I prove that I love you, and you never see it," Sam's voice is a harsh, quiet thing, and he's so close to crying it's a wonder he isn't yet. It's a wonder he's that strong. "I do everything to be nice. I do everything to think about your feelings. I do everything to comfort you, and to make it  _known_ to you that I am your brother and I am here for the long haul. But you don't do that for me. I have to  _guess_ at how much you love me or how much you'd do. You rub everything in my face. It's not my fault, really. I've only done so much bad for all the good I've done."

Setting the bottle down on the ground, Sam opens his door carefully. "You still think angels are more important than me, or...demons too. Or Mom, who I would  _love_ to have known. I think about her all the time!" He looks at Dean again for a moment. "You really need to think about the way you treat me. You don't treat me like a brother. You don't treat me like an equal. You don't...good night, Dean," he finishes abruptly. 

Dean sees them, the tears. He nods slowly. A lump forms in his throat around the words, "Goodnight, Sammy." He won't say it. He just barely catches it in time, but he won't say it. He nods again as Sam seems to wait just in case he wants the last word.

He doesn't, for once. Especially not if the last word is going to be, "Sammy." 

Sam's door closes. 

The bottle is outside of Sam's room on the ground. He'll remember it if he needs it. Sam usually remembers the things he needs. 

Dean wonders how long he had been remembering and listing the things he needed from Dean without saying them. There were a lot of them. He'll probably have to hear some of them again before they sink in.

Tomorrow'll be a new, more sober day. In more ways than one.

Dean thinks maybe he'll be ready for it.


End file.
